


Level Out

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- Agent South Dakota Lives, Alternate Universe- Captain South Dakota of Chorus, Awkward Crush, F/F, Femslash, Leadership, Pink Squad, Pre-Femslash, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanessa Kimball is not like any leader South have ever known, is nothing like the Director. </p>
<p>(Also she's way prettier)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Level Out

In another world, South Dakota, you don’t stop flying, and the Meta doesn’t catch up to you, so you never meet your end to Agent Washington on those rocks. In another world you keep flying until  you get to an asscrack-of-the-galaxy spaceport, trade in the purple thing to a blackmarket alien goods dealer, buy a piece of shit Pelican. Live in the Pelican. Never stop moving, never stop running, Delta a throb of resentment in your mind, _you killed him_ –

“You killed him, too.”

“Agent York was beyond medical help. It was a kindness.”

“How d’you know what I did wasn’t, assface?“

–until you hit a little planet called Chorus. 

Crash land. 

Come up swearing. Come up fighting. Knock out a dozen of the white-armored fucks before you stop to figure out what’s going on. Dodge a sniper bullet, but it still goes through your shoulder. Some big scary fucker with what is clearly an over-appreciation of Batman shimmers into view, and you follow his introduction by calling him a fake-ass dick-for-brains motherfuck. Delta thinks you could be more precise with your insults. The merc who materializes out of the shadows thinks you’re hilarious. You call him a bitch too.

The Big Guy takes off, and the orange one takes you to his leader.

The New Republic is a sorry army, dumbass kids still green as the grass Chorus doesn’t have much of anywhere anymore (war will do that to a planet). They’re all gonna get killed fighting these Feds of theirs, but they offer to pay you, so you decide to stick around.  Your lieutenant goes by “Volleyball” and you don’t want to like her (you’re done liking people) but she finds you hair dye in the right shade so you kind of have to. Also, she calls you Boss. You like the sound of that.

You’re a mercenary with a heart of anger, and you don’t like Felix one bit. Maybe you recognize too much in him that’s like you. You fight beside him and watch him. Watch your back. Eat with him and watch him. Drink with him and watch him. The two of you stand apart. Mercs with nothing on the line but your lives and a paycheck. 

“Up for a spar? Finally figure out who’s the most dangerous merc?” Felix smirks at you, flipping the knife. You watch it arc, light spinning off the blade. The wrist movements are familiar, the patterns, the curve of fingers around the knife but she’s dead and you turn away. Don’t trust anybody.

“I’m not giving out any of my tricks, Sunkist.”

You’re done liking people. You’re done caring about people. You’re done trying to keep anyone but yourself alive. 

But their leader, Vanessa Kimball. 

The first time you only bring back half your squad, objective failed, she sighs. Thanks you all for your effort. We’ll do better next time. Get some rest. 

You stay at attention as the tatters of your squad disperse, heading off toward medical and Lady Bones’s care, to the mess, the showers, their bunks. Kimball starts to turn away, sees you, immobile. Stops.

“Get some rest, South,” she says. “You did everything you could.”

“How d’you know?” You demand, spine stiff, chin lifted. “Six kids are dead, _ma’am_.”

Kimball looks at you. Really looks at you, and your fists clench.

“I’ve never known you to half-ass anything, Agent South Dakota,” Kimball says. Her eyes are too kind. You look away. “If there was something you could have done, you would have done it.”

“I was reckless.” You don’t know where the words are coming from. Some inner script you know too well. “I should have been more careful.”

She shakes her head. She turns her helmet in her palms, looking at the visor. 

“I’m the one who was too careful,” she says. “If you had more manpower, like you requested, the mission may not have failed. I was wary of taking people off the guard rotas despite the slim chance of attack. If I were less careful…”

You blink. Stare at her (not for the usual reason) in disbelief. 

“It was my job to win,” you say, slowly.

She looks up at you, eyebrows knitted together in concern, set of her mouth firm. She looks like a leader, like this, you think. She looks like someone you could follow. 

“You can’t do your job without resources,” Kimball says, interrupting your thoughts. “I can’t ask you to do the impossible, South.”

Something about those words catches you, right in the chest. She keeps talking, as you try to breathe.

“I know we– the New Republic– we don’t have a lot of resources,” Kimball goes on. “We’re outmanned, outgunned. We might lose. Maybe this whole civil war will end up fixing nothing, in the end, maybe change is impossible. But we have to try. Even if we fail, even if it’s impossible. Trying means something. It has to.”

You look at her, the tips of her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks, the bloom of dark hair haloing her. She is a leader, and she is a woman. A beautiful woman. A kind woman. She’s doing the best she can with what she was given.

And that’s all she wants from you. 

“I think we both deserve a beer,” you blurt out. She looks up at you, surprised. “A big one.”

She smiles, eyes crinkling and matching wrinkles forming in her  forehead. 

“I shouldn’t–”

“Less careful,” You remind her. “You told me to get some rest.”

“Beer isn’t rest,” she says, laughing.

You sling your arm around her shoulders and start off towards the little still Bitters’s cooked up that everyone in charge pretends not to know about until they need a drink. She lets herself be towed, fitting herself against your side, and it makes you go warm. 

“Yeah, well, I’m getting there.”


End file.
